Where Nature's end of language is declin'd, And men talk only to conceal the mind.
A death-bed's a detector of the heart.
Man wants little, nor that little long.
They only babble who practise not reflection
Angels are men of a superior kind; Angels are men in lighter habit clad.
But love, like wine, gives a tumultuous bliss, Heighten'd indeed beyond all mortal pleasures; But mingles pangs and madness in the bowl.